


300 seconds

by presidentbees



Series: Arcane Distillery [3]
Category: Arcane Distillery, Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Disembodied Hands, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Goretober 2018, Horror, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Repressed Memories, Scars, Touchy-Feely, mc does not enjoy watching his bones be stolen, this is why you get a therapist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentbees/pseuds/presidentbees
Summary: ‘It’s not real, it’s not real,’CK repeated to himself, struggling to keep his breathing steady as another icy hand wrapped itself around his throat.‘It’s all in your head.’CK tried to breathe in through his nose, but the hand that had been exploring his lips had moved up his face, and was pinching his nostrils shut. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge it, but the hand gripping his hair curled its fingers into the nape of CK’s neck, holding him still.





	300 seconds

_‘It’s not real. It’s not real,’_ i> CK repeated to himself, struggling to keep his breathing steady as another icy hand wrapped itself around his throat. _‘It’s all in your head.’_

He kept his eyes firmly shut, continuing to sit cross-legged on a yoga mat while his instructor slowly paced through the rows of students, guiding them through their final meditations. Around him, CK could hear the sounds of his other classmates breathing evenly in time. Everything about the class had been perfectly normal, except for the constant presence of the hands.

There were at least four of them roaming across his body. The first hand was firmly wrapped around CK’s neck, the fingers digging into his windpipe as it dragged its thumb across his jaw in long, deliberate strokes, like it was appraising the quality of his face shape. The second hand was firmly grasping his right shoulder while the third played with his long hair. It ran its fingers through his long ponytail before sharply yanking on it and repeating the process. The fourth one was—

CK jerked as the fourth hand ran lightly down his back. Its fingertips were painfully cold, and its nails traced over the mapwork of scars on his back, bringing them to life with small, electric shocks. 

Biting down on his tongue, CK tried to listen past the sound of blood rushing in his ears and focus on the words of his instructor. Her voice was low, soothing, rational — and to CK’s ears, it sounded like it was coming from underneath a foot of water.

“Focus on your breathing. Find your center and repeat to yourself: I am strong. I am capable. I can tackle any issues that life throws my way.” The instructor’s bare feet whispered against the hardwood floor as she passed by CK. “Feel yourself become a pure light of confidence. You are the sun. All of your worries are melting away.”

CK felt another hand probe harshly at his lips, the palm mashing against his jaw as the fingers worked to pry open his mouth — he clenched his teeth stubbornly in return.

He was almost done. His session was almost over. Only five more minutes. Five minutes meant sixty seconds per minute. 300 seconds in total. He could count backwards from 300 and it would be over. _‘299 . . . 298 . . . 297. . .’_

CK tried to breathe in through his nose, but the hand that had been exploring his lips had moved up his face, and was pinching his nostrils shut. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge it, but the hand gripping his hair curled its fingers into the nape of CK’s neck, holding him still.

_‘210 . . . 209 . . . 208. . .’_

“Is there something wrong?” The instructor's footsteps stopped next to CK. She sounded concerned — without seeing her face, CK could imagine her elderly face creasing into worried lines as she knelt down beside him. 

_‘188 . . . 187 . . . just a little longer . . . 186 . . .’_

There was movement to his left as the instructor knelt next to him, putting one hand on top of his upturned palm. Her hands were frigid. “Cicatrix, talk to me. Is something wrong?” CK felt dizzy from the lack of oxygen. The hand around his throat loosened enough for him to let out a raspy breath — “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were okay, Cicatrix.” Her voice had become warped, the feminine lilt melting away into a genderless, monotone drawl. It slipped its fingers between CK’s, tightening its grip painfully. “You look pale. Are you cold, Cicatrix. Are you feeling alright, Cicatrix.”

The temperature dropped around them, and CK refused to open his eyes. The hand trailed down his spine again, causing CK to bite into his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

_‘143— don’t touch me! . . . 142 . . . 141 . . .’_

He knew what was going on — he knew that this was a nightmare now. None of this was real. He could end this dream as soon as he made it to ‘0’. Then it wouldn’t have any choice but to let him go. Just a little longer. 

“Cicatrix. Cicatrix. You’re hurting. I want to help you.” The voice whispered next to his ear, and the grips of all six hands seemed to tighten simultaneously. “Let us help you.”

Twisting away, Cicatrix fought to free himself from its grip, but there were more hands on him now. They were holding down his legs. Grabbing him by his rib cage. Pressing their palms against his face and prying at his eyelids, forcing him to open his eyes and look ahead.

CK opened his mouth to scream in horror, but he didn’t have a tongue or lips to scream with anymore. The wall of mirrors in front of him reflected the image of dozens of deathly white hands extending out of the darkness. They blindly grasped at the air, searching until their fingers found what was left of CK’s body. They had peeled away his flesh until there wasn’t anything left but a bare skeleton engraved with blue runes.

Some logical part of CK’s brain tried to reassure him that he wasn’t in danger. This was a nightmare. He couldn’t be alive if they had removed his heart, and it wasn’t possible for him to be seeing this image since he didn’t have any eyes. It almost worked—

Until CK began to feel the fingers wrapping around his bones and beginning to pull them away. 

_‘99. . . 97 . . . what number am i on? didn’t i already pass 96? . . . 95 . . . 94 . . .are those are my bones. . .'_

The disembodied hands worked deftly to pick apart the smaller portions of CK’s skeleton. Several of them went to work picking the teeth loose from his skull, while others began to remove the smallest bones from his feet. With every piece that they took away, CK could feel another piece of his sanity going with them.

Over his shoulder, still gripping his skeletal left hand, CK could see himself — or, not himself, but his childself, wearing the cornflower blue uniform that CK remembered from his years in the cult. Long, black hair hung to its waist, and its eyes had been sewn shut with shining, silver thread. Its lips sat right next to where CK’s ear used to be, and he could feel its icy cold breath chilling his bones. 

_'85. . . 80. . .no. stop. stop. don’t do that. stop.’_

Smiling serenely, the child ran its free hand over the smooth curve of CK’s skull. Placing one hand against CK’s jawbone, the child turned CK’s head back to look at it. For a second, CK thought it was going to kiss him — it’s nose was practically touching his forehead, and CK was at eye level with its mouth. He had no choice but to look into its gap-toothed, child mouth and see that it disappeared into dark nothingness. 

The child breathed out, chilling CK’s face with another gust of cold air, and then with a sharp crack, it snapped his neck. For a moment, CK struggled to understand what had happened. He felt weightless as his head was lifted away from his body — like he was floating. It wasn’t until his childself turned him around to see the rest of his skeleton being carried away that the horror began to sink in.

If CK had the capability to cry, he would have. He could feel the bones of his jaw moving, but the only noise he could make was the dry, raspy sound of old bones rubbing together. 

_‘68. . . 67 . . . 66 . . .'_

“Oh, Cicatrix,” the child said, petting CK’s skull. It held him tenderly, its nails scratching over dents and fissures on CK’s head as it pointed him toward what was left of his body. “Cicatrix. Cicatrix.”

Despite not being attached to it, CK could still feel his bones being cracked apart as the hands forced his ribcage open. A pair of hands began to work at his left arm, delicately carrying away his radius and ulna into the darkness. Fingers wormed their way underneath his scapula, lifting it up so that a hand could pull his humerus away. 

“Cicatrix. Cicatrix. Cicatrix. We missed this, Cicatrix.” The child continued to blindly run its hands over CK’s skull, reading the runes that had been etched there. 

Technically, it was their skull — the two of them were the same. Two variations of the same person. It was the copy of CK — Cicatrix — that he had left to die in the recesses of his mind, and its only way to contact him was in the quiet moments of his nightmares when it could make itself known again.

_‘30. . . 29 . . . i think i skipped 40 . . . 39 . . . 38 . . .or. . .no i didn’t. . .did i. . .36. . .’_

Cicatrix hooked its fingers into the open holes of CK’s nostrils while its other hand traced over the bumps of CK’s remaining teeth. He could feel them loosen, falling out and dropping into the waiting palms of the hands that were creeping up around them. 

He almost didn’t care. He could feel himself becoming more numb as the hands carried away the last portions of his vertebrae. His body had vanished into the void — all that was left was his head and the sensation of Cicatrix’ icy cold fingers brushing against the inside of his skull. 

As if sensing his growing apathy, Cicatrix giggled childishly. Moving its hands to either side of CK’s head, it began to gradually push inwards. Nothing seemed to happen, but then more hands began to pile on. The pressure began to increase, and CK could feel his jaw break suddenly. 

_‘15. . . 14. . . 13. . .’_

The pressure was unbearable. CK couldn’t escape from it. Everything was so cold, and his bones were so brittle. He could feel cracks beginning to form. Fissures tracing across his skull as he began to shatter. 

_‘8. . . 7. . .6. . .’_

The child leaned down, pressing it’s lips against the curve of CK’s skull so that the words reverberated through his bones like the final chimes of a dying clock. “Remember us, Cicatrix. Remember this.” 

_‘3. . . 2. . . 1. . .’_

CK sat upright in his bed, arms flailing as he fought to tear the bed sheets, which had wrapped themselves around his neck and body, away from him. His lungs felt like they were still being held in a vice like grip, and CK struggled to inhale. 

Grabbing at his chest, CK could feel that he was still wearing the shirt from earlier that day — he must have fallen asleep as soon as he got home — and underneath that, there was the slippery material of his binder.

 _‘Stupid,’_ CK mentally berated himself as he took off his shirt and threw it to the corner of his room. 

His binder was soaked in sweat, making it cling to his skin. CK had to struggle to pull it over his slight shoulders, but the material finally came free, and the relief was instantaneous. CK took in a deep lungful of air — his ribs protested sharply, causing him to exhale with a sharp ‘owch’.

He took a few seconds, shoulders hunched over his body protectively as he focused on evening out his breathing. His room was cold, and the light coming in from broken blinds was just enough to illuminate the piles of clothes that had accumulated across his floor. The walls of his apartment were bare, save for the half-covered mirror CK had hanging above his dresser. The sheet he’d thrown over the reflection had slipped off slightly, and CK met his own haunted gaze as he looked into it. 

He could feel the ghost of the nightmare still lingering at the back of his mind — hands tracing over his scars, fingers wrapping around his throat, the voice of his childself as it whispered in his ear. . .

CK shivered, shoving the dream out of his mind as he reached for a clean shirt to wear.

Plastic bags filled with groceries were scattered on his floor, evidence that CK had gone out the day before and crashed before he could bring himself to put them away.

_‘Hopefully there’s not anything perishable in here. . .’ ___

__  
_ _

Collecting the bags, CK ducked his head as he exited his room, purposefully avoiding his reflection in the mirror so that he didn’t have to see the lines of fresh, pink bruises blooming across his neck and jaw from where invisible hands left their marks on him. 

**Author's Note:**

> one of my final works for 2018! I originally had this finished for goretober 2018, but then I decided I wanted to continue it. Not going to lie, I'm proud of myself for finishing this piece. Mostly because I scrapped three drafts before settling on this narrative. You can read more about CK on his [toyhou.se](https://toyhou.se/1674553.ck).
> 
> The most notable bit is that he's got a really fucked up childhood where he was involved in a cult! And now his ex-patron talks to him via his dreams! And terrifying nightmares where disembodied hands pick apart his skin, or slowly de-flesh his loved ones while he has to pretend like nothing is wrong! It's great!
> 
> Thank you to my friend vik/speedydoggo ([DA](https://www.deviantart.com/speedydoggo) // [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SpeedyDoggo) // [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpeedyDoggo/pseuds/SpeedyDoggo)) for helping me out with this when I got stuck editing.


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